


Only Gonna Get Worse

by kheironides



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Androids, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-16
Updated: 2015-02-01
Packaged: 2018-03-01 16:50:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2780567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kheironides/pseuds/kheironides
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first thing he does is breathe.<br/>--</p><p>Yamaguchi's an android with a little too much self-awareness in a society that hates that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Just for clarification; the volleyball club isn't a volleyball club, lol. There's no volleyball happening in here. There's just... so many names to tag.
> 
> This thing _should_ update weekly (excluding next week... Christmas) but that might change with circumstance. Also thank [Sage](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SageMasterofSass/) (tumblr [here](http://sagemasterofsass.tumblr.com/)) for betaing this!! (Before I fussed with it all over again.... :'))
> 
> EDIT: holy shit i forgot to mark this as multiple chapters my bad :ooo

The first thing he does is breathe—he comes online and everything in him seems to come to life, turning gears raising his chest to a slow rhythm, electronic pulses following one another so quickly that a constant flow quickly ensues. He doesn’t cry out with his first breath and doesn’t squint against the light cutting through his eyelids or lift away from the cold against his back. He’s just there, suddenly, only half aware but growing more so as the seconds pass. He comforts himself with his breathing, counts to it while he waits for something. A sigh sounds next to him, then the sound of shoes on tile and graphite on paper and fabric on fabric on skin.

He feels hyper-aware, sitting in the almost-dark but hearing every little thing in the room. Somehow, he’s accepting of it; he knows what the sounds are and who they belong to (his internal components, the woman conducting the physical, the vent in the ceiling), and knows that he’ll be okay where he lies.  


“Lift your left arm and rotate your wrist clockwise,” says a woman’s voice. He thinks that maybe he should clench his fist to show his phalangeal capabilities as well but before he can, she’s scratching down something else and pinching at his legs. “Can you feel that?”  


He nods, wonders if she’s even looking at his face, then answers out loud just in case she isn’t. “Yes, I can.” Anticipation of the next pinch makes him flinch and tuck his chin in when it comes, the doctor’s fingers catching the skin on his cheekbone. A quick spark of something in his head makes his eyes pop open, his lungs expand, hands raise. “Oh… sorry. I should stay still.”  


The doctor wears a vaguely surprised expression at his reaction, still loosely holding his cheek as she leans further over him. “Close your eyes.” The tone of her voice, how lowly she whispers it, sends another spark shooting through him, hastened by the pleading glare of her blue eyes over the rims of her glasses. He thinks it’s fear, submission at her command, worry of the unknown reason for it—but he’s mindlessly obeying before he can think anything more, making sure not to squeeze them too tight.  


“Feel that?” she asks again, after a moment devoid of breathing.  


“…Yes.”  


“Good.” She exhales and records whatever she’s supposed to, slightly more hurried than before. “Open your eyes.”  


He can’t really be blamed for being a little more hesitant this time, can he? Anyone else would be—the possibility of danger feels too close, like something might pop out at him if he opens them. The perceived threat is weighing down on his eyelids but slowly he complies, watching the black-haired woman nod encouragingly. “Tell me your serial number and change into these clothes.”  


Following the nod of her head and the tip of her pen, his sight lands on a folded pile of grey fabric sitting by his…exposed legs. He might not have been born but, apparently, the processes of birth and his own creation are similar enough to have both products come out bare. Following her orders, he tenderly pushes himself up and grabs them, taking note of his elevation on the metal table (he’d barely have to hop down to dismount which is good because he isn’t sure how stable the shock absorbers in his knees are, and can’t sure until he can process their feedback). The task of unfolding the grey uniform and slipping his feet in is easy though he feels nervous under the woman’s watch, enough to let his toes catch on folds until one of his feet gets wedged.  


The doctor is patient though, pointedly not looking at him as she turns and shuffles too neatly to be aimlessly about the room, pretending to find things to tinker with: the silvery metal storage closet filled with boxes of gloves and needles and things like wrenches, clamps, and screws; the white countertop to the right with the sink and the white rags stained with different splotches of color (black, green, a mostly-clear yellow); and the cabinets overhead that she only barely opened before closing again. The rest of the room was bare but she seemed to find something to scuff at on the tile floors as she ambled.  


It takes him a moment to notice it but he does; the way she keeps subtly turning her gaze in a certain direction when she’s facing him, and the way she keeps hovering around the edge of the table at his feet, close enough to have her stomach pressed against it. She seems to be keeping her shoulders broad and that piques his interest, if not his survival instinct, making him lower his head so he can hide his eyes and search around the room, over her.  


The camera is silently behind her, bolted to the wall above a tinted glass pane that’s showing through to a hallway that’s likely just as bright and blank as this room. It’s angled lower than it should be for a reason he doesn’t know (he isn’t sure how he knows it’s too low but it strikes him as “common sense” at the same time—cameras record, the way it’s set would make for blind spots, like the one the doctor’s creating with her body). It hits him then that she’s blocking him. Particularly, his feet and calves.The ones that are tangled in the uniform, the ones making mistakes. The realization doesn’t make him feel anything drastic, surprisingly enough; it just makes him finish clothing himself a litter faster than before, with a little more caution and forced finesse.  


He’s about to finish zipping up the front when he feels air enter the uniform from his side. Thinking it torn, he looks up at the woman, then to his side as he begins asking for a different pair.  


Only a small “oh” makes it out of his mouth when he sees a horizontal rectangle cut out of the fabric along his ribs. The fact that it’s hemmed professionally clues him in to something more so he presses the loose cloth down with a hand to his ribs to see what the little opening is for.  


He stares at the barcode printed into his skin. It’s just vertical lines, varying in thickness, with intermittent dots that vary in size; something that’s unreadable to humans. Though they don’t know what it says, they know what it means—it means the wearer is an android. It means the wearer isn’t human like them.  


A dizzy, distant sensation swirls behind his eyes; he knows he isn’t human but seeing the evidence is just… too surreal. He touches at the tattoo, honestly marveling at how it looks so seamless and crisp. _Y1210-17910 _, reads the code and he knows it to be his serial number but refuses it as his name.  
__

He lifts his gaze to seek out the woman face but finds himself drawn to his own instead, barely-there in the glass behind her. His face is rounder than hers and the jaw more prominent, gold eyes alight with something he can’t yet understand. He feels it, though, like a sun trapped in his chest, bursting through his irises and searing through his skin in the form of freckles. He thinks its conviction in his eyes but he knows he doesn’t have anything to feel that way about yet, does he?  


“Serial number and name, please,” she interrupts, tapping at her clipboard.  


“I,” he starts, feeling lost. He knows the dappling across his flesh is artificial, meticulously placed by human hands. They aren’t made by anything blistering in him, as that can’t happen unless he overheats and his engine burns through his skin. The realization takes the surreal feeling he’d felt and twists it into something dark and wet and despondent. “I’m… Yamaguchi Tadashi.”


	2. 1 - Get Gone

Chapter One

Before Yamaguchi can consider anything further, the doctor’s ordering him to stand and saying she’s in a bit of a rush. She helps him climb off the table, watching his knees as the pads of his feet press against the tile and he rocks back onto his heels. There’s no sound and no worrying pressure, which Yamaguchi reports, so the doctor releases her grip on him and motions with her hand towards the door. 

“This way,” she says, moving close behind him and to his surprise continuing in a whisper, “Look forward, don’t speak.” 

If he was human, he would have started shaking then but he isn’t, so he just aims his gaze towards the end of the hallway and is relieved by the fact that his steps don’t falter, even when another person (dressed just as the doctor is; a white coat, hair pinned back, gloves stuffed in the coat’s pocket) cuts across the hallway. Unlike his doctor—maybe mechanic would be a better word, Yamaguchi finds himself musing in an attempt to distract his body from reacting and halting in a panic—this doctor’s walking slow, with a wide gait, allowing the slighter form beside him dressed in grey to keep up. He’s chattering, half to himself and half his companion, Yamaguchi deduces. 

“Wait,” Yamaguchi hears beside him, stopping when he feels a tug at his suit. His doctor moves past him, arm stretched and holding the clipboard out for the other doctor. The man stares for a moment, seemingly waiting for some sort of explanation. “Lunch.” 

It takes a moment more before he smiles, taking the clipboard and passing it to the android beside him, who reacts to the touch of it on his chest by pressing a flat palm against it, though his eyes stay locked on something in the distance. Yamaguchi’s stomach clenches, particularly harsh when the other android doesn’t grip the board properly or put his arm down afterwards, holding it stiffly against his chest. 

“Got another date, huh, Shimizu?” the doctor asks; he isn’t standing as close to Yamaguchi’s center of vision as the android is so all he can vaguely see is the smile stretched across the man’s lips. He thinks it teasing in a friendly way but he doesn’t feel any sort of reaction from Shimizu at his side. 

She simply nods once in response and, with a hand at the small of Yamaguchi’s back, rushes them away, her heels clacking sharply while the flesh of Yamaguchi’s heel produces heavy thuds. They round right at the next corner and, when they come upon a four-way, Shimizu drags them left—into a dead end with a door marked “storage”. Wordlessly, she opens the door and pushes him into the dark room, taking a moment to shove her hands into her pockets before producing two folded pieces of paper. 

“Meet a blond man here.” Taking his right hand, she jams the paper she had held up, labeled ‘X/Y’, into it. “Give this to the blonde girl.” The second paper, labeled ‘T’, went into his left. With her palms now empty, she flicks on the light of the room, snags an unopened box of gloves, and clasps an arm dressed in gray, stood beside the switch, with her other hand. 

Shimizu looks him right in the eyes then, expression firm and unapologetic but understanding when Yamaguchi croaks out a small noise as she pulls another android from the closet. 

“Someone else will come take care of you now.” She starts closing the door behind her, something like cool reverence in her eyes when she says, “I hope we meet again.” 

* * *

That whole part of his trip had been awful, with him folded into a cramped trash bin with dirtied rags covered in oils, cogs digging into his hips. There had been something wrapped in thin plastic below him but he hadn’t been able to wedge it out from under himself at the time, and he had promptly abandoned all attempts of doing so when the door reopened and the cart the trash can was on moved. Now, after a series of rights and lefts that give Yamaguchi enough time to quietly stuff the papers into the sleeves of his uniform, the cart’s rolled to a stop and a heavy door thuds shut. He quietly tries to settle a little deeper into the trash, pressing his ear against the wall of the receptacleto listen for the movement of steps. They’re incredibly soft, sounding as if they’re getting lost in the ceiling somewhere, but the banging on the lid is definitely not, causing him to jerk back and slam his head into the other side. The plastic shakes and, wildly, Yamaguchi thanks the fact that the bin is anchored into the cart, even if that too rocks somewhat precariously. A dull, yellowed light slides in like sludge when the lid is torn away, a surprised face obstructing its path. 

“Shit, what’d you do?” the face’s mouth asks, eyes running over him momentarily before they must conclude that, yeah, everything’s okay. The janitor lets out a loud laugh afterwards, hands gripping the top of the bin as he lets his shaved head hang between his arms. “What are you, a small animal?” 

“I—I’m,” Yamaguchi hunts for something to say; the man seems amicable enough if not totally aware of their situation. He must be who Shimizu had mentioned before leaving, the one who would be taking care of him. “…I’m sort of in a new situation.” 

The laughter slows to a stop then before he agrees, tone still a little mocking, “You are. What are you doing just sitting in there anyway? Get out!” 

Hauling himself out hesitantly, Yamaguchi keeps a skeptical eye on him. He wishes the man was more accommodating to his emotions but, somehow, his abrasive behavior is managing to distract Yamaguchi, keeping him from feeling the panic that sits on his queue, waiting to be processed. 

“What do we do now?” he asks when he can’t take the janitor’s reciprocated and significantly-more-scrutinizing stare any longer. 

“You need to get into the dumpsters—it’s cliché but it works. You’ll be transferred to a truck; hop out after it gets moving and you aren’t on the factory’s grounds. Hopefully you’ll be okay then but if you aren’t, make sure nothing obvious is sticking out to give you away. You’ve got the coordinates that you need to go to. You’ll be patched up soon after.” He points at himself. “I’ve got more jobs to do.” 

Yamaguchi nods, trying to convey that he understands but the talk of business is reminding him of how real everything is; how immediate it is. He runs a hand through his hair, wonders if everyone else’s feels the same way, if he’s making the same face anyone would in the same situation. He wants the mirror back, he realizes. He wants to be back in the white room with the motherly hum in the vents, not here, with the too-big space full of dark shadows swallowing up murky light and the rattling pipes grating on his ears—on his system. 

His face must be betraying his thoughts because the man moves to his side and elbows him. “What’s your name?” 

That question somehow grounds him, allows him to cling to the sense of comfort that comes from his answer. “Yamaguchi Tadashi.” 

“Right, Yamaguchi. You can call me Tanaka. Listen—we need to get you out of here. You’re probably pretty stressed out now but tough it out and you’ll be fine in a little while.” Tanaka stops talking to reach into the trash bin and pulls out that had been under Yamaguchi. He holds the plastic-wrapped outfit out, shaking it lightly to remove the rag clinging to its corner. “Change into these clothes when you’re out and follow Shimizu’s instructions. There’s wipes in the bag too; make sure you don’t smell like oil.” Yamaguchi takes the bag, eyes wide and a smidge fearful. He locks them with Tanaka’s, who just grins back at him and reaches forward to wrap his arm around Yamaguchi’s neck and push him down, catching his head between his arm and his side. This time Yamaguchi goes with it, holding tight to his change of clothes as Tanaka rubs his knuckles into his hair. “I said you’ll be okay! We’ll take care of you! What if I told you you’ll meet others out there like you, will that make you feel better?” He smirks down at Yamaguchi and releases him when he pops upright, curiosity flushing the fear out of his eyes. “Yup. There’s a couple of ‘em. Talk to the gray-haired one first—he’s got a mole too. He’ll probably handle you better. Oh, after you talk to Ukai though—blond, tall, probably wearing a long-suffering look if he isn’t too tired to make it. He’ll tell you the basics of safety. You need to understand that stuff as soon as possible.” 

His voice takes on an edge in the last two sentences, command making his words sharp. Yamaguchi doesn’t know if he should think that Tanaka’s worried about his safety or if something else is going on but, at this moment, he doesn’t have much else to do but concede. His nod is on the meeker side but it gets Tanaka off his back. Tanaka does the same thing he did to the trash bin to the dumpster; knocking on it with the side of his fist. “Get in this one. I won’t be able to help you up; you’re too heavy.” So, with a some clambering, Yamaguchi does, hearing his joints flex in his shoulder as he pulls himself up over the lip with one hand, the other holding the clothes, and tips forward. The landing isn’t neat and there’s nothing substantial to cushion the fall onto his back; the familiar sensation of metal digging into his skin is entirely unwelcome but slight shifting takes most of the pressure away from the thinner layering of skin on his limbs. There are smooth slabs beneath him as well and he finds himself turning his head to look, eyes engaging into their night mode as the dumpster’s lid clatters shut. 

“Are you alright in there?” Tanaka shouts, startling him. 

“I don’t think I tore anything,” he calls back while running a brief evaluation (there’s no rips in his skin, no bared wires), earning a chuckle from Tanaka. He doesn’t get why it’s funny but he figures he won’t be able to understand until later. Maybe he could ask if they meet again, he realizes, recalling what Shimizu had said. He almost doesn’t but decides he should anyway and adds, “Will we meet again?” 

There’s a hum from Tanaka, “I’m pretty busy but I guess I can make time if you like me that much.” He’s pretty sure he can hear Tanaka mentally patting himself on the back, or at least grinning at himself. 

“I didn’t mean it like that.” Yamaguchi reflexively defends himself, focusing a moment longer on Tanaka’s indignant “hey!” before getting back to whatever was under him. With the limited color to work from, he can’t exactly pinpoint what it is but not a second after touching it with his fingers does it hit him—the meaty thud he’d heard when he fell in had been mostly masked by the sound of gears clanking against one another but he’d heard it nonetheless. He could feel the elasticity of it; the instinctual awareness of “artificial flesh” that comes to mind throws him off. 

He closes his eyes then, taking measured breathes to keep his internal system cool while it kicked up to adjust to the darkness and the panic. That hypersensitivity from the table comes back full-throttle, until he’s hearing how his breath hits the lid and how the expanding space of his chest minutely moves the gears beneath him. He hears Tanaka sigh rather loudly, pat a palm against the side of the dumpster, softly this time, before turning and walking outside of Yamaguchi’s hearing range. 

He’s been awake for an hour and this was the second time he’s been left to wait in the dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hope you're all having a good holiday !! thanks sage for betaing once again :)


	3. Happened by Chance

Tossing himself haphazardly out of the back of the truck, Yamaguchi hits the turf with a solid thud, the meat of one hand and the caps of his knees gouging into the sloped roadside before he rolls into the damp bed of a ditch. He doesn’t move, too afraid that the driver will look out one of his side windows and spy him—a synthetic gray smudge face-up among natural green and upheaved brown. The vehicle doesn’t stop, surely enough, just stampedes into the distance down the straight line of pavement. Yamaguchi seems to know innately that at the end of the road, devoid of forks or turns for stretches of miles, is a recycling factory for robotic parts. The awareness of that fact has him digging his fingers into the dirt in an attempt to anchor himself where he is. 

He holds his breath, thinking that the expanding of his sides will nudge the plastic around his change of clothes into catching the sun’s light and drawing attention to him, though the threat of being caught is already on the other side of the horizon. Once all evidence of the truck fades and all is still for a moment, relief seeps into him, permitting him to sip down air. The lung-like machines in his torso force the cool inhales over his engine, which slows, having been eased of the strain of functioning in the increasing heat it produced. He can hear the wind cheering softly at his leap, as ungraceful as it was, the purity of its tone telling him there’s no trees or walls nearby. 

The sky is a wide, wide blanket that lends no echo, doesn’t need low orange or blaring white lights to stay illuminated. The painted clouds directly above Yamaguchi don’t appear to be moving and, for that instance, he wants to not move with them. His uniform is damp against his back, grass blades prodding at his cheek, his nape, his ankles. Dirt soft on his palms. He doesn’t know what to think then, while he waits of his own volition in a bright state counterpoint to the previous experiences. 

So he just lies there instead, fingers clenching and crinkling the wrap in his hand quietly. He could probably stay here forever, he thinks, massaging the ground beneath him and living off whatever battery charge he has left. 

—That thought has him stalling and stifling the want to shudder. Not forever, at least not consciously. His battery would run out and he’d lay there, dead, until another passing vehicle going back to the assembly factory to pick up its load noticed him. Would he still be there, awareness in his processes, if his battery ran dry? Would he still be there if they recycled him? 

_I don’t want to find out,_ and that settles that. He twists into a crouch, cautiously, and when no weapon on wheels flies down the road to capture him he straightens further. He’ll put some distance between the road and himself, change quickly, and then tackle the issue of the notes given to him by Shimizu. For now, he just wants to get away from the veins leading to the heart of what’s putting him on edge: the factory behind him. 

Hurried, he makes his way further into the flat, dewy fields until there’s nothing around him and he feels alone for the first time since he woke up. It’s a good feeling, safe, he concedes as he eases to a sitting position and crosses his legs, placing the clear package on his lap. Tearing it easily, he pinches the black and orange shirt inside between his index fingers and thumbs, lifting it up to examine it. It looks nice, rough but less so than the uniform he’s wearing now, a little sporty. It gives off a human feeling, something with personality. Beneath it but atop the pair of shorts are black disposable flats—flimsy but not too heavy or too bulky to add into the clothing’s thin package. He figures they’ll do, since any kind of shoe is better than none. 

Yamaguchi sets the shirt back on the wrap and moves it aside, unzipping and tucking his arms back into his sleeves. He tries rubbing off his hands on the inside to clean them before shucking the shirt on—the lack of breeze against his barcode feels oddly suffocating, if he’s being honest, and in an attempt to quell the feeling he presses his palm against it through the shirt. The touch is a little reassuring so after a second he moves on, standing and peeling the rest of his body out of the grey suit. 

Getting dressed is easier this time than on the table, he angles his foot appropriately, stepping onto the suit strewn out over the ground. He rubs at the drying dirt on his feet absently before slipping the shoes on and prying the slips of paper from his first outfit, cautiously opening the one labeled ‘X/Y.’ Written professionally in pen is a series of numbers he understands to be coordinates. Though they’re unlabeled, he understands them, stares extra-long just to make sure he’s seeing them right (hoping he didn’t jostle anything internal and tucked away from diagnostic sensors when he hit the ground earlier) then shoves both folded messages in his pocket. Instinctively, if he can call it that, he feels the direction and distance in the numbers—its south-west, not too far but away enough that he’d arrive by nightfall. 

He’ll admit to feeling curiosity about the second piece of paper but when he considers reading it all he can hear is “give this to the blonde girl.” That’s definitely not him, his hair was too dirty a brown to be even mistaken for any variation of blond, and a weird sense of respect for Shimizu dissuades him from even peeking. He keeps his hand in his pocket and holds the leaflets, hoping to keep them from wrinkling while he embarks on his little journey. 

* * *

The buildings start small. Little houses with little farms bleeding closer together with distance, growing in bulk and height until the houses overtake the green space and there’s concrete everywhere, as grey as his suit or a lifeless beige—if it has any hue to itself innately. The only other color comes from chalk on the road, from signs made of plastic or fabric, or buzzing lights. 

None of them had stood out to him along the way, even if they flashed and buzzed at his eyes, but he could feel the distance between his destination and himself then. Now, he feels the number of steps between growing smaller and smaller and hesitates, trying to recalculate the GPS system in himself. He can’t tell where he is but the program insists he’s close, practically right on top of his destination. It’s a collected, matter-of-fact feeling, robotic in a way he’s sucking down breath is not. Yamaguchi’s worried about what he’ll find in there, mind running over all the possibilities and “what if”s and outcomes that all seem to lead to one of two factories, maybe more, unlabeled or unknown or purposefully hidden from him or— 

Someone slams into him from behind, a solid body knocking him forward on his feet. He staggers with the force of it, having not expected something like that to happen; he’d walked with the trickling flow of people and when he’d slowed to a stop, wound up in his thoughts, they just stepped around him, occasionally tossing him a concerned, curious, or irked look. None of them had purposefully shoved at him that whole time but whoever hit him just pushed through him and continued, ripping open a door though not before trampling someone else down like a bull. Yamaguchi feels a bit unnerved by the contact, upset that someone had been close enough to feel that his skin isn’t as warm and doesn’t give as well as a human’s does or that his exhales hold a barely-there whir. 

An alleyway stands stark alongside the café he stands in front of, offering sanctuary from the thrumming noises of life. Stumbling, he accepts the offer and plasters his back against the building’s wall, hands clenched in fists as he forces his brain to stop. The concentration of gathering up the thoughts and terminating them allows him to refocus and regain his control. 

There’s no way that person would have made any distinctions when they were in that much of a rush. Shimizu and Tanaka had helped him. They aren’t alone, either—they had mentioned at least three others. They seem to know what they’re doing too, based on how quickly they went about their business and how confident their actions were. Every android is made with default programs and that GPS system is one; Shimizu and her crew had to have a procedure for that. 

Yamaguchi just has to do his part and find the man they’d mentioned. ‘Ukai’ had to be around here somewhere. 

Pushing up off of the wall, Yamaguchi peeks out of the mouth of the alleyway, looking away when a couple steps out of the chiming doorway and halt to toss him a cautious eye. They cross the road and then walk parallel, purposefully avoiding him. He thinks he should be offended, he isn’t a threat after all, but finds that he can only silently thank them. He doesn’t want to cross them as much as they don’t want to cross him. 

“Excuse me,” he hears, then jerks away and looks back to the café’s door. Too, too close to him stands a blond man; he’s tall, a bit on the thinner side but his unimpressed expression draws the eye away from spindly limbs, vaguely outlined by the loose coat clinging to him for support. 

Yamaguchi doesn’t know what to say in response, mouth propped open. Fear grips him first—he momentarily entertains the idea of busting through the wall beside him to get away from the human, maybe claw his way up the wall instead to make less of a scene—before logic slaps away its hand. Blond, tall, “long-suffering”… he doesn’t know if the general air of disdain counts but he thinks it should. This person had sought him out too, as if he’d been expecting Yamaguchi’s arrival. 

“Are you—” he starts, voice frail with hope, nearly hidden by the rumble of a vehicle. 

“Ah, no. I need to verify something before I waste my time with you.” Yamaguchi decides that Ukai isn’t too nice of man, not at all someone who would make him feel at ease. He’d assumed that whoever he met would be consoling, at least. The ideal being someone who would guide him through with a soothing tone— “Hey, focus.” The blond snaps his fingers in front of his face, rudely drawing his attention again. “Are you new or something?” 

“Yes!” Yamaguchi breathes back, oddly thankful that Ukai’s brash personality means getting straight to business. No chitchat, no wasting time, no more exposure to an environment that makes him feel vulnerable. “I just got here and…” 

Something triggers in the back of his head, makes him stiffen up. The singing of electricity coincides with his reaction though he doesn’t realize what it is until his eyes search out the source, settling on the vehicle across the road. It’s a bulky van, parked and driverless. Two men close the back set of doors, sticks as long as string trimmers clenched in their fists. They’re what zap, lighting up as over-powered voltage sparks between the forked ends. 

Ukai turns to look too, though his reason seems to be more passing curiosity than any intent to gauge danger. He looks as startled as Yamaguchi feels when he looks back. 

“What’s—hey!” Yamaguchi reels, not stopping to hear whatever Ukai has to say. He wants to get out of dodge, wants to find somewhere safe. 

Unfortunately, the human doesn’t seem to want the same thing, grappling at his arm. He matches Yamaguchi’s steps back with steps forward, still grabbing at his sleeve when he can’t get a solid grip on Yamaguchi’s skin. 

He’s too determined to allow himself to be stopped, though, ducking to detangle himself from the shirt so he can make a clean get away without hindrance. That drive is blown right from him when cool air strokes across his barcode, reminding him that as exposed as he felt moments ago, he could always be even more so. Yamaguchi freezes up again, thoughts breaking coherency and disintegrating into a jumble of numbers, crisscrossing and impossible to read. 

And then everything goes quiet. His eyes lock on Ukai, who seems entirely focused on the dark lines etched into his side. Neither of them moves but Ukai does whisper “oh, shit” under his breath and somehow that flips a switch, makes it easier for Yamaguchi to focus his panic on something. If he didn’t do anything, the men would get him; they’d cross the road and paralyze him with the electricity and shove him onto the nearest disassembly belt. 

“Help me.” Without thinking, he rushes forward, breathing deep enough to hiccup when it catches at the man’s reaction. The look on his face is one of confused repulsion, brow drawn tight and eyes skeptical. 

“What did you just say?” The man asks, disbelief pitching it upward. 

“ _Don’t let them kill me!_ ” Is all he can think to shriek back, feeling the engine in his chest kick and rush, gears stampeding as he impulsively presses even closer, hands shaking with excess energy where they grab at the stranger’s lapels. 

“What—are—,” narrowed brown eyes widen and when Yamaguchi’s focus on them to get a read, they see his reflection in the glasses instead; his own eyes’ irises glow white, vibrant, his trembling more like a clunking machine’s (jerking, in disjointed sections, like the machine he is). He forgets to scan the other’s eyes for emotion and by the time he snaps back into himself it’s too late for the man had closed them. Hands come up and grab his wrists, trying to jerk them away, but Yamaguchi’s locked up so the force does nothing to move him—nor does the force applied to twist Yamaguchi around. “Would you _move!_ ” 

Startled, Yamaguchi concedes, letting the man spin them and hide him with his body. “Cover your damn eyes,” Ukai orders in at a hushed volume, covering them with his own hand before Yamaguchi can, the other pressing over Yamaguchi’s barcode. 

For a couple of seconds, there’s nothing but the sounds of begging and metal clattering, then three different doors shutting before the vehicle revs up and rolls off. 

“Stop freaking out. They were looking for someone else. Got them, too, then left.” Yamaguchi sags at that information, eyes staying shut when Ukai slowly takes his hand away and puts distance between them. He strides off to pick up the shirt he’d dropped and shoves it against Yamaguchi’s chest. “Who are you, anyway? You aren’t part of Karasuno, are you? You said you were new but…” 

That’s probably not Ukai, then, or else he’d know the situation. This person has to be… someone else. Yamaguchi, feeling drained, looks up and meets the stranger’s gaze, wondering why he paused. There’s realization blowing the man’s eyes wide, a disbelieving little laugh popping out between his lips. 

“You’re my ticket in.” 

Yamaguchi doesn’t get the chance to ask him what he means before he’s interrupted by a voice shouting at the mouth of the alleyway. “Oh, he’s here!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for how late this is !! I had moving to deal with, and some hospital visits (for my mother; she's fine though !!!) so that Sucked ?? but its done so lol.
> 
> Updates will probably be more sporadic as well!! I don't want to overload my beta b/c they've got school to focus on too.... :o


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